Interlude: The Past
Bruce Wayne grit his teeth as he willed away the pain, forcing himself to retain his composure as his hands quested blindly in the dark. Calm, he told himself, clamping a lid on the mounting panic he felt in his gut; one's natural reaction to being buried alive, he supposed. Finally he seized on his prize.
With a flick of his fingers a lonely flame sparked into existence on the tip of the cigarette lighter, and the young man took stock of his surroundings. Nothing broken. His eyes drifted to the shadowed shattered pieces of the technology he had brought with him. Well, nothing on me, he amended the observation ruefully.
His mouth was parched, bone dry, and his lips cracked as the young man grimaced. So this was the Russian's final test; adapt or die. The dust was an omnipresent choking haze, fresh and still hot sand intermingled with the ancient trappings of decay and death. Best get started then, the young man concluded with a final wheezy cough. Time was of the essence.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The old man sighed as he checked his brass pocket watch and sipped on the chilled vodka before him before returning it to the rapidly melting ice in its silvered bucket.
"Nearly and hour now," he said aloud with a hint of remorse in only slightly slurred Russian, reaching up to gently stroke the capuchin monkey perched on his khaki covered shoulder. "Quite a shame too. The boy had potential." The man shrugged lightly before reaching up to adjust the umbrella that shaded his chair and table from the harsh desert sun.
"Nothing too special, mind you. Perhaps midlevel for KGB. Solid designs but…" Here the man gently sighed once again, permitting his furred companion to chatter contentedly in between nibbles upon dates. "So uninspired. Nothing new, nothing new…"
He resigned himself to the loss of another student and reached out for another drink, only for the sand before the table to begin to quake. As the ground rumbled even further, the old man felt a toothy grin spread out across his weathered face. With a cloud of sand thrown aloft with a rumbling boom, Bruce Wayne emerged clad in grime and his own blood, reborn into the desiccated desert air.
The Russian could only grin and applaud, and even the monkey screeched in approval.
"And the prodigal son returns to us, a new man!"
The youth before him panted heavily, wiping sweat, blood, and sand from his brow before dropping the jury-rigged hodgepodge of technological leftovers that had facilitated his escape. The ungodly mass of wires and metal gave a final sparking shudder before belching a sulfurous cloud of smoke in its death rattle.
"Hell of a test," the student replied simply, his voice a rasp.
"I had complete faith in you the entire time, my boy," the old Russian proclaimed proudly, clapping his would-be protégé on the back.
Bruce raised a questioning brow at this.
"Bullshit."
The Russian simply shrugged. "Well," he admitted, "perhaps a few moments of doubt. But no matter, you have passed the test!"
Bruce was racked by a fit of coughs before he could fix his current mentor in a steely gaze once more. "And what exactly was this supposed to test," he asked with no small measure of venom.
"Your vision, boy," the old man answered solemnly as he laid a hand on his student's shoulder. The monkey unenthused by this development, chattering angrily and latching on to the wide-brimmed hat his owner wore. "What your designs and ideas always lacked was the spark of invention, originality. You could refine an idea like no other, yes, but to create something truly new, truly unique?" The man shrugged. "You struggled," he continued, before a wolfish grin spread across his face. "But no more."
With a flourish, he pointed to the wreck at his feet. "In the crucible of the sands, you forged something new from the disparate parts before you!" he boomed like a proud father as he surveyed his student's work.
Bruce was less excited, his body still aching from the ordeal. "You didn't leave me with much of a choice," he shot back.
"Life will not leave you with choice, boy," the Russian answered in kind. "Eventually, you must leave behind the comfort of the familiar and forge your own path."
Spreading his arms wide, the man looked out at the plains of Giza before him, the Nile cutting a long winding course across it. On one side of the river sat the encroaching sprawl of Cairo, and on the other, jutting out against the horizon, stood the pyramids and in their shadow the Great Sphinx.
"When the ancients put chisel to stone, Bruce," the Russian continued. "There was nothing in their world like what they were trying to accomplish, nothing to base it on, and yet they were able to craft monuments that have stood the test of time!
He whirled back to face his student before grabbing another swig of vodka, sending his monkey chattering in disdain.
"That is the power of creation," he raged on. "That is the power of the ingenuity of the human mind. " He offered the bottle to his student, and after a moments hesitation the younger man took a healthy and burning swig, much to the Russian's amusement.
"You see, Bruce? When you truly invent, when you leave all the security of the familiar behind, you can create something marvelous."
The mad Russian fixed his student in a stare with a twinkle in his eye.
"And then, my boy, then you can change the world."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The Present
A month. It had taken him a month and the countless ministrations and near constant attendance of Alfred and Dr. Thompkins to get his strength back. He'd stayed busy in the meantime, though.
"This part of the roof is fairly thin, Alfred," the young man called from his seat atop a crag of rock in the caverns that wound below the manor of his ancestors. "With a little bit of digging, we could get an entrance to the caves right below the study."
Alfred emerged from another twist in the caverns with wrench in hand, grease and sweat staining his brow as the generators that had brought down to illuminate the gloom hummed and echoed.
"A hole in the hardwood flooring," he quipped. "How delightful."
Bruce simply shrugged. "Vastly better than taking the long way through that old well every time we want to get down here," he countered.
"You mean every time you want to get down here, sir."
The young man met the man who raised him with a sly smile. "You're an accomplice at this point, Alfred. If things go south I' saying this was all your idea. "
The Brit graced him with one of his rare smiles before shaking his head. "Bloody lunatic, that's what you are, Master Bruce. And I'm one for helping you. I take it you're eager to get back to work?"
Rising from his seat, the master of Wayne Manor and his butler headed deeper into the caves beneath their home. The echo of their footsteps was joined by a low roar, distant and weak at first but mounting in strength until at last it reached its crescendo as the pair emerged into the central chamber of the caves beneath their home; the waterfall that had carved the space over millennia tumbled down from above, out of unseen darkness, one of countless underground rivers that fed the city's aquifer. All of the tunnels beneath the manor had funneled down into the space, a hub of the cave system that riddled the entire area. It had made for the perfect base of operations.
With a mental note to finish adding the guardrails, Bruce strode with purpose down the pathway he had placed along the edge of the cavern wall, a balcony of rough sheet metal bolted to the rock as it wound its way to a wider natural overhang. Alfred had called it a safety hazard; he preferred the term work-in-progress.
Metal gave way to rock beneath his boots as Bruce reached the broad shelf of stone that played host to his ambitions. Tucked away in natural alcoves sat his workbench with its clutter of tools and schematics, the "war room" with its tangle of threads connecting mug shots and newspaper clippings; profiles and strategies for each of the factions of that vied for control of Gotham's underworld. Carmine Falcone and his ilk would have to wait, though. As Bruce Wayne strode to the battered locker he had lugged down to the cave, there was only one man on his mind; the Red Hood.
"Is it ready, Alfred? "
"As ready as it ever will be, sir," the manservant replied tiredly. "I finished the sewing on it last night…. though I wasn't expecting needing to use a soldering gun and a screwdriver," he finished crisply. "Still, it will suffice."
Bruce beheld the fruits of his labors with a critical eye; it had taken several incognito trips to the black market to gather the materials, even longer to fit them together to meet his vision. But at last, it was ready.
Alfred laid a gentle hand on his ward's shoulder. "A word of caution, sir? Perhaps time some time to acclimate and ease into things might be best." The butler gave him a solemn look. "Know your limits, Bruce."
The young man turned to face his former guardian and returned a warm smile. "Of course, Alfred. Nice and easy."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Arnold Flass took a swig from his flask before returning it to a jacket pocket, never letting a hand stray too far from the pistol on his belt; he never did, these days. Not after Jimmy Gordon had let him on the side of the road in a bleeding heap. Besides, the boss had wanted extra security for the exchange, and what Carmine Falcone wanted, he got.
The Red Hood had been making life hell for both sides of the law in Gotham, and the Roman's empire had been no exception. Every deal got an extra security detail, and tonight was no exception. He savored the taste of the liquor for one more moment before returning his attention to the shipping container and the flurry of activity that surrounded it; it was in everyone's best interest to be done with things sooner rather than later.
The docks were quiet this time of night, nothing but the lapping of the bay's fetid surf and the hum of streetlights to keep them company. Wild shadows loomed along the labyrinthine winds of shipping containers, a maze of cargo, iron, and rust. Shaking his head, Flass turned his attention back to the operation and did a quick head count. Their Santa Priscan supplier was a slippery little shit but he had never cheated them in the past, and if he was wise he never would; getting on the Roman's bad side tended to be poor for one's health. The swarthy foreigner was quickly counting out the merchandise, thick wrapped kilos of the purest heroin money could buy destined to be diluted and cut down to street pusher quality. Flass could only stare with a hunger in his eye; it had been a while since he'd indulged that particular vice. Continuing to pace, the dirty cop kept up his count only to frown.
"Mick,"" he rumbled, casting his voice only as loud as absolutely necessary. "Where the hell is Joe?"
The grunt in question turned with a shrug, cradling his Kalashnikov with care. "Went to take a piss," he answered casually. "Should be back any minute. "
Grumbling beneath his breath Flass turned away from his assault rifle toting comrade, a shadow in the corner of his vision seeming to ripple as he did; he chalked it up to a lack of sleep. Ever since his run in with Gordon, the commissioner had been keeping him all the more busy with "extra assignments"; he was going to have to earn back the respect that goodie-two-shoes Gordon had cost him, and he knew it. Idly reaching for another drink, the dirty cop braced himself for a long and tedious night.
That was when the lights went out.
The dark enveloped them with a suddenness that elicited a stream of Spanish profanity from their dealer. Glowering, Flass pulled his gun from his belt and held it at the ready; he was not in the mood for this tonight.
"Mick," he hissed through clenched teeth, turning to face his companion. "What do you see over there?"
His only answer was silence. The light of the moon and not-so-distant city lights left the mess of shipping containers in a thick gloom, but even through it Flass could see his answer; lying unmoving in a heap was Mick, his rifle forlorn at his side.
Flass cursed before rushing to the downed man's side, gripping his pistol ever tighter.
"Mick!" he hollered, loud as he dared. "Wake up man!" He slapped him across his face once, twice, before cursing and giving up, scooping up the man's gun just in time to hear the screams. He rounded the corner of the last shipping container to find every man there downed just as Mick had been, their Santa Priscan strung up to a lamppost by his feet and dangling in the wind. Cold beads of sweat poured down the cop's brow as he felt his heart begin to race.
"No way," he murmured to himself. "No fucking way."
A flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and with a shout the man unloaded his weapon into the gloom, tracer rounds tearing through shadows and sparking off metal and concrete. He was next; a deep and primal fear spoke to him from the deepest instincts engrained in his brain. He was being hunted.
Again and again he shot at shadows, the darkness holding untold horrors that could only be kept at bay by a stream of hot lead. Or so he told himself. When the AK ran dry, he withdrew his pistol and held it at the ready, eyes twitching about wildly as he slowly backed his way towards a corner.
There was no sound save his own pounding heart, beating like a drum in his ears, and the rattle of his breath as he tried in futility to calm it. A sudden thrum whistled through the air and Flass searched in vain for its source, only for a sharp pain to bloom against his legs. A sleek black cord had wrapped itself like some inky anaconda about his legs, ensnaring him as well as any spider's web. Panicked, the man struggled to pull them apart, but the cord of the bola held fast and like a tree he toppled, cursing the whole way down.
Pain seared through the man's arms as he caught himself, hard, on the pavement and the pistol clattered out of his hands and skidded across the ground. Heart racing, Flass rolled onto his back and tried to sit up and reach the cord that bound his legs. He never got the chance.
A creature made of shadows dropped from the sky and landed in a crouch before him, black wings billowing out behind him. The monstrosity rose to its feet, wings wrapping around it as it loomed over the wide-eyed man at its feet. Its face was wreathed in darkness, but Flass could see two pointed ears upturned towards the moon, a pointed nose, a grim set mouth, and two eyes that seemed to stare into his soul.
"What are you?"
It was all that the cop could muster, the words tumbling out of his mouth unbidden in barely more than a whisper. He wanted to scream, to run, to put the entirety of Gotham between himself and this shade, but his arms were limp, his breath bated and shallow.
The demon smiled, its teeth seeming to stretch into fangs.
"Your worst nightmare," it growled.
Flass screamed.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
With a pained growl, Selina Kyle landed hard on her rump on the ring's floor, sweat pouring down her face and lips locked in a grimace. A large and weathered shovel of a hand, wrapped in layer upon layer of boxing tape, reached down to help, and, sourly, she took it. Ted Grant hauled her to her feet with ease and looked down at her with a mixture of disapproval and concern; the old man had barely broken a sweat.
"You're distracted," he intoned, a teacher to his pupil. "Something's got you wound up tight, and that feint you fell for was sloppy." His face softened somewhat as the brick wall of a man reached to the ropes and retrieved a hand towel before tossing it to his student. "Walk with me, kid. We're done for the day."
Slipping out between the ropes of the central ring that dominated the Wildcat Boxing Academy, Selina followed in the proprietor's wake, toweling herself off and frowning ever so slightly; Ted Grant didn't miss much, and his prognosis had been correct. Things had been good for the last month. Grant had taken her and Holly under his large and muscled wing, and left them little choice in the matter. He seemed to do it with most of his tenants, most of them just as young and desperate as she had been, and all of them invariably ended up trading bruises with their landlord.
The old man had a knack for picking up strays. He doted on Holly like a proud grandfather, even managing to scrounge up from who-knows-where a number of old textbooks for her to catch up on school with; Selina snuck looks for herself when her young roommate was asleep. Grant had never pushed her to do things by the books, to call social services, whom he seemed to disdain nearly as much as Selina herself, but he wasn't about to let anyone under his roof simply rest on their laurels.
For the first time in a long time, Selina Kyle felt as if she truly had somewhere to call home, and that was exactly what had her worried; the money they had stolen from Lefty had nearly run dry.
"You're quick as they come, kid," Grant grumbled as they headed towards his office, past the few students that remained in the gym in the twilight hours of the day. "Got better agility and speed than most you'll face in or out of the ring. But it ain't worth jack shit if you don't fight smart. Let someone my size close the distance on you with a trick like that and it'll be lights out."
She took her lecture in silence; it was a fair assessment, and she knew it. Rounding the corner she followed Grant into the cluttered space that was his office, a well-worn desk carpeted in various papers and ledgers dominating its central space. The walls were adorned with faded photographs and certificates; here a younger Grant grinning at the gym's grand opening, frozen in time, there a certificate of honorable discharge from the Marines. At the back of the desk hung what invariably stole the eye of any newcomer, though; the massive gold and leather belt that proudly proclaimed "World Heavyweight Champion", though for the life of her Selina could never quite make out the year on it.
"So," the old man said, settling into his comparably large office chair, "what's eating at you, kid?"
Plopping into the chair before him, Selina Kyle felt for all the world like a guilty schoolchild called in before the principal. Telling him the truth was out of the question; she knew for a fact Grant was hard pressed to pay the bills as it was. So drawing on years of practice she made her face a mask and met Grant's appraising gaze; the best lies were always born of half-truths.
"I just feel like I'm going to wake up one morning and it'll all have been just a dream," she said at last with a small smile. "I'm not used to putting down roots."
Ted Grant seemed satisfied with that answer, the apprehension held in his weathered face melting away to the stoic placidity that lent to the illusion of his being almost a feature of the landscape, an immovable mountain of a man who would always be there to lean on when he was needed.
"I used to be the same way, when I was your age," the boxer answered her, a half smile gracing his mustachioed visage. "Takes some getting used to, but I've got full confidence in you, kid." With that, the man clapped his hands together and rose to his feet. "Now go get yourself cleaned up and grab Holly," he continued, levering one meaty finger at her. "Bradley should be back with those beers any minute now, and the steaks I picked up aren't going to eat themselves. Now get."
She didn't need to be told twice; the man made a mean spice rub. As she approached the door, though, his low rumble of a voice gave her pause once more.
"One last thing, Selina," he said, face solemn. "Don't worry about your rent until next month; I know you'll be good for it."
With a murmured thanks, Selina Kyle left the office face flushed.
Ted Grant didn't miss much.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
James Gordon was having a long day, and even the sight of Flass in multiple casts couldn't completely banish his frustration.
"So," he began again, removing his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose before replacing them, "after you 'engaged the suspects', tell me again what happened, Detective Flass." The policeman didn't even try to blunt the edge of his sarcasm; he knew full well what side of the law Flass had been on down at the docks that night.
"Its like I told you, Jimmy," the battered man before him began again, his voice a stuffy nasal pitch from the splint on his nose. "This…this thing just started picking people off! It killed the lights, strung the dealer up like a piñata, and, and…" The man shuddered. "Thing was ten feet tall with wings, black as night. That's the God's honest truth, Jim."
Flass looked at the lieutenant, and Jim Gordon saw something behind his eyes that he hadn't seen since nearly a month ago; fear. Whatever he had seen, it had put true and utter terror into the soul of Arnold Flass; he'd find no deception here.
Gordon sighed. "You're free to go, detective. Get some rest."
With that, the detective limped out of the room and James Gordon cracked his knuckles in frustration. The soured Santa Priscan deal had been only one of nearly half a dozen mid level crime scenes that had all been left the same way in the past three nights; the perpetrators bound, beaten, and babbling about the monster who had left them that way. The stories had been erratic, to say the least.
A mugger had sworn that bullets passed through him like smoke. A would-be rapist had stammered through a broken jaw how it had had claws that could reach across an entire alleyway, and still others had ranted of how the thing simply melted into shadows. There was one thing, however, that all of the accounts had in common; the monster had black swooping wings, like some kind of nightmarish bat.
A knock on his office door roused Gordon from his musings, and turning his day brightened significantly with the entry of Detective Sarah Essen, her blonde hair bobbing in its ponytail.
"How goes the commissioner's 'special' assignment, lieutenant?"
Gordon couldn't help but smile; Loeb's disdain for him was no secret in the department. "It's a grade A wild goose chase, that's for sure. Whoever did this put the fear of God in these men, but with the Red Hood still at large the department has bigger fish to fry right now." He stared at the stack of interviews on his desk and shrugged before meeting the younger detective's eyes, a warm smile settling comfortably beneath his ruddy moustache. "Speaking of which, any progress on that front?"
The woman shook her head with a frown. "Nothing since that house fire in Park Row a month back. We have solid evidence linking the Hood to it, but it's the only thing that doesn't fit the pattern they've been following. "
Gordon reached for the chipped #1 Dad ceramic mug that Barbara had gotten him for Father's Day and took a swig of lukewarm coffee. "How so?" he asked; Loeb's displeasure had kept him out of the loop on most important cases that went through the department, and much to his chagrin the Red Hood case had been no exception.
"Arson isn't their style, at least not lately," Essen answered, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. "Its been kidnappings and robberies, and more of the latter lately than anything. A lot of fairly large scale ones too, mostly chemicals, the majority of them from Wayne Enterprises." She shrugged. "But then the very next day it's a case of shaving cream from a barber shop," she continued exasperated. "There's just no pattern to it!"
With a tired smile, Jim Gordon raised his mug in salute to his coworker. "There's always a pattern, somewhere, and I've got full faith that you'll find it, Detective."
The faintest bit of blush crept into the blonde's cheeks, and Gordon looked away in equal embarrassment. "Well," he said at last, perhaps a bit more loudly than necessary, "I'd best get back to my goose chase before the good commissioner finds something else he'd like me to do; like scrub out the break room toilets."
He noted with pleasure that that had yielded a small smile from Essen.
"Well keep at it, lieutenant," she countered. "I'm sure you'll find your 'bat-man' soon enough."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
A young woman sat on the fire escape above the gym, her legs dangling out above the alley below, an open window to her back. She let the sounds of the city wash over her, a blanket that she had slept with every night of her life, heard through thin walled tenements and lean-tos in slums.
A light purr broke the city's spell, and smiling she turned to see a mottled tabby cat slink over the windowsill and nuzzle against her.
"Hello, Isis," she cooed at the creature, stroking its fur gently before looking back out into the gloom, the lights of Wayne Tower and its ilk glimmering in the distance. Between the cat and Holly, she reflected, Ted Grant wasn't the only one who seemed to have an affinity for strays.
Selina Kyle found herself at a crossroads. Sedentary was a descriptor she had spent a great many years trying to avoid; it was tough to hit a moving target. Yet now she found herself, dare she think it, putting down roots, and that came with responsibilities. As she swung her legs back and forth out over the alleyway below, musings on the future percolating through her mind. She could run, she thought; melt back into the city like she had done so many countless times before, be packed up and gone with hardly a trace within the hour.
Isis mewled before disentangling herself from her caretaker and slipping back inside, and turning to watch her Selina caught sight of the reason that she knew running was never an option again. Holly laid curled up on the couch, her hair in a tangle and one of the books Grant had found clutched to her chest. Wit ha sigh the young woman draw her legs back and followed her cat back indoors, pausing to gently lay a blanket over the sleeping girl's form. For better or worse, Holly needed her, and she couldn't in good conscience abandon the girl, even if Ted Grant seemed more than willing to look out for her.
And for now looking out for Holly meant having enough money to pay the rent. Mind turning over her options, Selina smiled as she lighted on an idea; this time of night, the East End was full of men with wallets flush from white-collar paychecks, wits dulled with drink and drug, and a weakness for pretty women. With a spring in her step Selina went to find her makeup and change. A good con was like riding a bicycle; you never truly forgot how to pull it off.
Two hours later Selina found herself in the possession of the wallet, watch, belt, and shoes of one Mr. Benjamin Horn, and up and coming broker at the Gotham Stock Exchange, or so he claimed, who had picked a supremely unfortunate night to peruse that particular corner of the East End. Mr. Horn would go on to be found the next morning handcuffed to the drain pipe of a dive bar bathroom gagged with his own socks. His wallet would find itself quite quickly drained of its contents before joining the rest of his possessions in entering the vibrant underground economy of Gotham City; with the highest murder, theft, and general crime rates in the country, Gotham was quite the town to work in as a fence.
Still, Selina couldn't help but frown as she received payment from one of the town's many pawnshops of questionable legality; at this rate, she was going to have a long couple of nights.
For Holly, though, it would be worth it.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The sprawling office was quiet and dimmed, lit only by a few scant lamps and the glow of neighboring towers, a somber reflection of its owner's mood.
"Nice view."
Like a man who had seen a ghost, the color drained from Philip Kane's face as he turned to see the figure standing in his doorway.
"Bruce!" The older man rose to his feet. "You're, you're…" Teary-eyed, the man took his nephew in a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry for all of it, how things turned out. If I could go back and –"
"Philip," Bruce said firmly, stepping back and laying a hand on his uncle's shoulder. "I know. But you need to listen to me; the Red Hood Gang is planning something big, and I need to know what you know about it. "
Philip pulled away, his eyes downcast as the portraits of Kanes and Waynes past and present gazed impassively at him from the walls. "I don't know anything, Bruce," the older man answered him with a shaky sigh. "I, I let them in the door thinking I could control things, and," the man paused, liking his bone dry lips. "You were right. There's no controlling them, no stopping them."
"I can stop them," his nephew answered him, his voice steel. "But I need to know more. If you don't know what they're planning, then tell me what they've stolen from you."
Pacing back to his desk, the older man simply shook his head. "They control the records now, Bruce, obscure everything. "
"You have to have some ways of tracking things, though, for safety?"
Philip Kane could simply shake his head. "There was. We used to tag every item with a tiny magnetic signature, and it'd ping the system if things were moved out of their facility." He threw his hands up in exasperation, voice tinged with a frantic half laugh. "But the bastards found out about it somehow, dismantled it two days ago. When I tried to warn the police, members of the gang came and did this to me."
With trembling hands, the man undid the top button of his canary yellow dress shirt and rolled down the top of the collar. There, raised, red, and angry, emblazoned across Philip Kane's chest immediately above his heart laid a simple message like a death sentence; RH347. The brand was painfully fresh.
Bruce Wayne had no words. "I, I'm sorry, Philip," he managed at last. "Can you at least give me access to the system?"
Rolling his shirt back up the older man walked with his shoulder slumped towards his desk, unlocking a drawer and baring its contents to the world. An ID badge sat forlorn alongside a polished six-shot revolver, a case of shells, and an eponymous red mask.
"Here you go," Kane said as he presented the card to his nephew with a flourish. "The keys to the kingdom." His face trembled as he threw up his hands with a bitter half laugh. "Though I've left it in disrepair, to say the least."
Graciously, Bruce took the offered card and slipped it into a side pocket of the jacket he wore. "Philip," he began, "if you want to stay at the manor…" The young man faltered, sighing. "I'm saying we're family."
"No, Bruce," his uncle answered him, his voice tired. "I'm fine. It's too late for all that now." Bruce followed his uncle's gaze towards one of the newer portraits to adorn the office's walls; a younger Philip, his hair not so gray, with his daughters, Bruce's cousins, Kate and Bette at his side. "I've made my bed, and its time to sleep in it," he intoned solemnly.
The two men paced idly through the penthouse office's opulence. "Why did you do it, Bruce," his uncle finally asked. "Why come back when you could have stayed dead, this time for good? You would have had what you wanted."
Bruce Wayne stood silent for a time, his eyes wandering the skyline of the city through a warped glassy view as his mind tumbled over answers to his uncle's question.
"No," he said at last. "I wouldn't have."
A weary, bittersweet smile passed over Kane's lips. "Ah," he announced with a note of finality. "Pennyworth. That old bastard finally has you coming out of your cave?"
"Well," Bruce Wayne answered with a queer smile upon his face, "I wouldn't quite put it that way."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Bruce surveyed a map of the city laid out before him, pins stuck in the locations of Red Hood robberies. Pulling his armor's gloves off and tossing them aside, he stroked his chin as he cast his eyes over it, idly noting it was high time he shaved. Lists of the stolen goods sat alongside the map, notes scribbled into the margins. Somewhere among maps and margins and scribbles there laid an answer, he knew. It was just a matter of finding the right point of view.
In an instant, it came to him. "Alfred," he croaked, "come quickly!"
"What is it, sir?" the butler responded, worry in his voice as he swiftly entered the chamber. Bruce met his gaze with wide eyes.
"Its worse than I could've imagined, far worse," he said, pointing at the map. "The smaller and mid-sized robberies were just a distraction, a smokescreen to obscure the purpose of the larger ones. Look here," he continued, picking up the manifest of stolen goods. "These chemical shipments were almost exclusively taken from Wayne Enterprises facilities, with only one major site being left untouched. Taken alone they're mostly harmless, but if he were to combine them using the equipment and materials at that facility…"
"Mother of God," the Brit whispered, his eyes falling upon scribbles of chemical formulae "A combination like that would be worse than nerve gas!"
"I know, " Bruce answered solemnly, "and if I'm right, whatever he's planning for it will take place in two days."
"Two days, but that's-"
"The anniversary of my parents' death."
Silence hung in the air for a moment.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said at last, licking his lips, "are you sure?"
"Ever piece of evidence I have points to this, Alfred," the younger man answered, eyes steel and voice resolute. "He's fixated on my parents death, ranted about it endlessly before he shot me, and this is the only logical purpose those chemicals could serve."
In silence the butler shook his head. "Very well, sir," Alfred said at last, laying a hand on his ward's shoulder. "I'm with you until the bitter end. What must we do?"
Running his hands along his belt, Bruce withdrew one of the latest "toys" he had finished working on, as Alfred had dubbed them, testing its weight in his hands and twirling it in his fingers.
"We'll only have one chance at this," he said at last. "He'll have nearly the entire gang there for security." With a flourish, the young man hefted the metallic bat shape high before slamming a pointed wing on the map and into the table, the modified shuriken sticking fast in the wood and humming as it vibrated.
The shuriken shook as the two men left the chamber, voices echoing in the caves as they discussed strategy. At last, the metal bat ceased to shake and fell still, its point centered on the crux of the Red Hood's plan, the last Wayne facility standing; ACE Chemical.
There you go guys, hope you liked it. Sorry for the delay on this one; I've been out of the country for the past month, and my access to indoor plumbing, let alone internet access, has been spotty to say the least. Either way, please let me know what you think in the reviews, and until next time cheers.